Prevod
Then the goddess, grey-eyed Athena, put a thought into the mind of Icarius’ daughter, wise Penelope: to set the bow and the grey iron before the suitors in Odysseus’ halls, as a contest and the beginning of their slaughter.
She climbed the high stairway of her house and took in her strong hand a beautifully curved bronze key with an ivory handle. Then, with her serving women, she made her way to the innermost storeroom, where her lord’s treasures lay: bronze and gold and iron wrought with toil.
There lay the back-bent bow and the quiver that held many arrows freighted with pain, gifts given him by a friend he met in Lacedaemon—Iphitus, son of Eurytus, a man like the immortals.
The two had met in Messene, in the house of wise Ortilochus. Odysseus had come to collect a debt the whole community owed him, for men of Messene had carried off three hundred sheep from Ithaca in their many-oared ships, along with the shepherds.
On their account Odysseus had travelled that long road as an envoy, though he was still young: his father and the other elders had sent him. Iphitus, in turn, was searching for twelve mares he had lost, with sturdy mule foals at their sides. Those mares were later to bring him death and doom, when he came to the stout-hearted son of Zeus, Heracles, the man renowned for mighty deeds. Ruthless Heracles killed him in his own house, though he was his guest, respecting neither the watchful gods nor the table at which he had fed him. He murdered Iphitus and kept the strong-hoofed mares in his halls.
It was while searching for them that Iphitus met Odysseus and gave him the bow which mighty Eurytus had once carried and, at his death, had left to his son in his lofty house. Odysseus gave him a sharp sword and a sturdy spear, the beginning of a close bond of guest-friendship. But they never shared hospitality at one another’s table: before they could, the son of Zeus killed Iphitus, Eurytus’ son, that godlike man who had given him the bow. Noble Odysseus never took it with him when he sailed to war in his black ships. It lay in his halls as a keepsake of his dear friend, and he carried it only in his own land.
When that noble woman reached the storeroom and stepped onto the oak threshold, which a craftsman had once skilfully planed and straightened to the line, fitting the doorposts into it and hanging the gleaming doors, she quickly loosened the strap from the hook, inserted the key, and aimed it straight to throw back the bolts. The doors bellowed like a bull grazing in a meadow—so loudly did the fine doors roar at the stroke of the key—and swiftly swung open before her.
She stepped onto the raised wooden platform, where chests stood filled with fragrant clothes. Reaching up from there, she took the bow from its peg, together with the shining case that enclosed it.
Then she sat down there, laid it on her knees, and wept aloud as she drew out her lord’s bow. When she had had her fill of tearful lamentation, she went to the hall among the proud suitors, carrying the back-bent bow and the quiver that held many arrows freighted with pain.
Her serving women carried beside her a chest containing much iron and bronze, the equipment for their lord’s contest. When that noble woman came among the suitors, she stood beside a pillar of the solidly built hall, holding her shining veil before her cheeks.
A faithful serving woman stood on either side of her. At once she addressed the suitors: “Listen to me, proud suitors, who have taken over this house, eating and drinking here without respite while its master has been gone so long. You could find no other pretext for your conduct than your desire to marry me and make me your wife.
“Come, then, suitors, here is the contest set before you. I shall bring out the great bow of noble Odysseus. Whoever can string it most easily in his hands and shoot an arrow through all twelve axes, that man I will follow, leaving this house where I came as a bride, so beautiful and filled with wealth—a house I think I shall remember even in my dreams.”
So she spoke, and told Eumaeus, the worthy swineherd, to set the bow and the grey iron before the suitors. Eumaeus took them weeping and laid them down; elsewhere the cowherd wept too, when he saw his master’s bow.
But Antinous rebuked them, calling them by name: “You foolish country louts, with no thought beyond the day! Wretched creatures, why are you shedding tears and stirring the woman’s heart? She has sorrow enough already, grieving for the dear husband she has lost.
“Sit down and feast in silence, or go outside and weep, but leave the bow here as a stern test for the suitors. I do not think this polished bow will be easy to string.
“There is no man among us all such as Odysseus was. I saw him myself, and I remember him, though I was only a little child.” So he spoke, yet in his heart he hoped to string the bow and shoot through the iron.
In truth, he was to be the first to taste an arrow from the hands of peerless Odysseus, whom he was now insulting as he sat in the hall, urging all his companions on. Then Telemachus, in his youthful strength, addressed them: “Ah, surely Zeus, the son of Cronus, has robbed me of my wits! My dear mother, wise as she is, says she will leave this house and follow another man, yet here I am laughing and delighting in my foolish heart.
“Come, then, suitors, here is the prize before you: a woman whose like is nowhere to be found in all Achaea—not in holy Pylos, nor Argos, nor Mycenae, nor here in Ithaca, nor on the dark mainland. You know this yourselves; why need I praise my mother?
“Come, do not drag things out with excuses or put off the stringing of the bow any longer. Let us see what happens. I should like to try the bow myself. If I can string it and shoot through the iron, my honoured mother need not leave me grieving in this house when she goes away with another man, since I shall remain behind, already able to wield my father’s splendid weapons.”
With that he sprang upright and threw off his crimson cloak, then took the sharp sword from his shoulder. First he set up the axes, digging one long trench for them all, aligning them to a cord, and stamping the earth firm around them. Everyone marvelled at how neatly he arranged them, though he had never seen it done before.
Then he went to stand on the threshold and tried the bow. Three times he made it quiver, striving to bend it, and three times he relaxed his effort, though in his heart he still hoped to string it and shoot through the iron.
He would indeed have strung it on his fourth attempt, pulling with all his strength, but Odysseus shook his head and checked him, eager though he was. Then Telemachus, in his youthful strength, spoke again: “Ah, must I always be weak and helpless? Or am I still too young, not yet able to trust my hands to beat off a man who attacks me first?
“Come, then, you who are stronger than I am: try the bow, and let us finish the contest.” With that he set the bow down, leaning it against the smooth, close-fitted panels, and propped the swift arrow there against its fine curved tip. Then he sat down again in the chair from which he had risen.
Antinous, son of Eupeithes, addressed them: “Rise in turn, my friends, from left to right, beginning at the place where the wine is served.” So Antinous spoke, and they approved his proposal.
The first to rise was Leodes, son of Oenops, who read the omens from their sacrifices and always sat in the farthest corner beside the handsome mixing bowl. He alone hated their reckless deeds and resented the behaviour of all the suitors. He was the first now to take up the bow and the swift arrow.
He went to stand on the threshold and tried the bow, but could not string it. His soft, uncalloused hands grew weary of pulling before he could bend it. He said to the suitors: “My friends, I cannot string it. Let another take it.
“This bow will rob many a noble man of heart and life. Far better to die than live and fail to win the prize for which we gather here continually, waiting day after day.
“Even now each man cherishes the hope and desire to marry Penelope, Odysseus’ wife. But once he has tried the bow and learned the truth, let him seek some other well-robed Achaean woman and woo her with gifts. Then let Penelope marry whoever offers most and comes destined to be her husband.”
So he spoke and laid the bow aside, leaning it against the smooth, close-fitted panels, and propped the swift arrow there against its fine curved tip. Then he sat down again in the chair from which he had risen.
But Antinous rebuked him, calling him by name: “Leodes, what words have escaped the barrier of your teeth? Dreadful, bitter words—I am angered to hear them! Is this bow to rob noble men of heart and life merely because you cannot string it?
“Your honoured mother did not bear you to be a man who could handle a bow and arrows. Other noble suitors will string it soon enough.” Then he gave orders to Melanthius the goatherd: “Come, Melanthius, light a fire in the hall, set a large stool beside it with a fleece on top, and bring a great round of tallow from the store within. We young men will warm the bow and grease it, then try it and bring the contest to an end.”
So he spoke, and Melanthius at once kindled the tireless fire, brought a stool and set it beside the flames with a fleece on top, and fetched a great round of tallow from the store within. The young men warmed the bow and tried it, but they could not string it: they fell far short of the strength required.
Antinous and godlike Eurymachus still held back, the leaders of the suitors and by far the best in prowess. Meanwhile the cowherd and the swineherd of noble Odysseus went out of the house together, and Odysseus himself followed them outside.
When they were beyond the doors and the courtyard, he spoke to them gently: “Cowherd, and you, swineherd, shall I say something, or keep it to myself? My heart urges me to speak.
“How ready would you be to fight for Odysseus if he were suddenly to come back, brought here by some god? Would you stand by the suitors or by Odysseus? Tell me what your hearts and spirits bid you do.”
The keeper of the cattle answered him: “Father Zeus, if only you would fulfil that wish! Let the man return, let a god bring him home! Then you would see what strength I have, and how my hands would serve me.”
Eumaeus likewise prayed to all the gods that resourceful Odysseus might return to his own home. When Odysseus knew their hearts for certain, he spoke to them again: “Here I am, the man himself. After suffering countless hardships, I have returned in the twentieth year to my native land.
“I know that you alone among my servants have longed for my return. I have heard none of the others pray that I might come back home. Now I will tell you truly what shall happen.
“If a god lets me bring down the proud suitors, I shall find wives for you both and give you property and houses built near my own. From then on I shall look on you as Telemachus’ companions and brothers.
“Come, I will show you another unmistakable sign, so that you may know me well and trust me in your hearts: the scar a boar once gave me with its white tusk, when I went to Parnassus with the sons of Autolycus.”
With that he drew his rags aside from the great scar. When the two had seen it and examined every detail, they threw their arms around wise Odysseus and wept, kissing his head and shoulders lovingly. Odysseus, in turn, kissed their heads and hands.
The sunlight would have faded while they wept, had Odysseus himself not checked them, saying: “Stop your tears and lamentation, lest someone come out of the hall and see us, then tell those inside.
“Go back in separately, not all together: I shall go first, and you follow. Let this be our understanding. All the proud suitors will oppose giving me the bow and quiver. But you, good Eumaeus, must carry the bow through the hall and put it in my hands. Tell the women to shut the closely fitted doors of their quarters, and if any of them hears groans or the crash of men fighting within our walls, she must not come out, but stay quietly at her work.
“And you, good Philoetius, I charge with locking the courtyard gates and quickly fastening a cord around them.” So he spoke and went into the stately house, then sat on the stool from which he had risen. The two servants of noble Odysseus also went inside.
Eurymachus was already handling the bow, warming it this way and that in the fire’s glow, but even so he could not string it. His proud heart groaned deeply, and in vexation he exclaimed: “Ah, I grieve for myself and for us all! It is not so much the marriage I lament, distressed though I am. There are many other Achaean women, here in sea-girt Ithaca and in other cities. But if we fall so far short of godlike Odysseus in strength that we cannot even string his bow, the shame of it will reach generations yet to come.”
Antinous, son of Eupeithes, answered him: “Eurymachus, it will not be so, and you know it yourself. Today is the god’s holy festival throughout the land. Who should be bending bows today? Set it down and take your ease. We can leave all the axes standing: I do not think anyone will come into the hall of Odysseus, son of Laertes, and carry them off.
“Come, let the wine-server pour the first drops into our cups, so that we may make libations and lay the curved bow aside. In the morning tell Melanthius the goatherd to bring the finest goats in all his flocks. Then we shall burn their thighbones for Apollo of the famous bow, try the bow again, and finish the contest.”
So Antinous spoke, and they approved his proposal. Heralds poured water over their hands, while young attendants filled the mixing bowls to the brim and served everyone, pouring the first drops into the cups.
When they had made libations and drunk as much as they wished, resourceful Odysseus spoke with cunning intent: “Listen to me, suitors of the illustrious queen, while I say what my heart bids me. I appeal especially to Eurymachus and godlike Antinous, for he has spoken rightly: leave the bow alone today and entrust the matter to the gods. In the morning the god will grant victory to whomever he chooses.
“But give me the polished bow, so that here among you I may test my hands and strength, and learn whether my supple limbs still have the vigour they once possessed, or whether wandering and neglect have destroyed it.”
So he spoke, and all of them were furiously indignant, afraid that he might string the polished bow. Antinous rebuked him, calling out: “You miserable stranger, have you not a grain of sense? Are you not content to feast undisturbed among proud men like us, denied no share of the banquet, and to listen to our conversation? No other stranger or beggar hears what we say.
“Honey-sweet wine has addled you, as it harms any man who gulps it down and drinks beyond measure. Wine drove the famous Centaur Eurytion mad in the hall of great-hearted Peirithous, when he came among the Lapiths. Crazed with wine, he committed outrages in Peirithous’ house. The heroes were seized with anger, leapt up and dragged him out through the porch, slicing off his ears and nose with pitiless bronze. He went away, his wits unhinged, bearing his ruin with a crazed heart.
“From that arose the quarrel between Centaurs and men, and he was the first to bring disaster on himself through drunkenness. So I foretell great trouble for you too, if you string that bow. You will find no kindness from anyone in this land. We shall put you straight aboard a black ship and send you to King Echetus, the destroyer of all men, and from him there is no escape. So drink in peace, and do not compete with younger men.”
Wise Penelope answered him: “Antinous, it is neither honourable nor just to mistreat any guest of Telemachus who comes to this house. Do you imagine that if the stranger trusts in his hands and strength and strings Odysseus’ great bow, he will take me home and make me his wife?
“He himself surely cherishes no such hope. Let none of you feast here with a heart troubled on that account: it is quite out of the question.” Then Eurymachus, son of Polybus, answered her: “Daughter of Icarius, wise Penelope, we do not imagine that this man will take you home; that would be unfitting. But we fear the talk of men and women. Some Achaean of far less standing may say: ‘Much lesser men are courting a noble man’s wife. They cannot even string his polished bow, yet some wandering beggar came along and strung it easily, and shot through the iron.’
“That is what they will say, and it will bring us shame.” Wise Penelope answered him: “Eurymachus, men who dishonour and devour the household of a noble man can have no good name among the people. Why make this a matter of disgrace?
“This stranger is tall and well-built, and claims to be the son of a noble father. Come, give him the polished bow and let us see. I tell you this, and I shall keep my word: if he strings it and Apollo grants him glory, I shall clothe him in a fine cloak and tunic, give him a sharp spear to ward off dogs and men, and a two-edged sword. I shall give him sandals for his feet and send him wherever his heart and spirit bid him go.”
Then thoughtful Telemachus answered her: “Mother, no Achaean has a better right than I to give or withhold this bow as I choose—none of those who rule in rocky Ithaca or in the islands facing horse-pasturing Elis. None of them shall force me against my will, even if I choose to give the stranger the bow outright to take away.
“Go back to your rooms and tend your own work, the loom and the distaff, and tell your serving women to busy themselves with theirs. The bow is the concern of men, and mine above all, for the authority in this house is mine.”
She went back to her rooms in wonder, taking her son’s wise words to heart. Upstairs with her serving women, she wept for Odysseus, her dear husband, until grey-eyed Athena shed sweet sleep upon her eyelids.
Meanwhile the worthy swineherd picked up the curved bow and began to carry it across the hall. All the suitors shouted at him, and one of those arrogant young men called out: “Where are you taking that curved bow, you wretched swineherd, you vagabond? Soon the swift dogs you reared will eat you out there among your pigs, far from other men, if Apollo and the other immortal gods favour us!”
So they shouted, and he set the bow down where he stood, frightened by the clamour of so many men in the hall. But Telemachus called threateningly from the other side: “Old friend, carry the bow on! You will gain nothing by obeying them all. Take care I do not drive you out to the fields with a shower of stones, young though I am: I am stronger than you.
“If only I were as much stronger in hand and strength than all the suitors in this house! I would soon send some of them on a bitter journey out of our home, for the evil they are plotting.”
So he spoke, and all the suitors laughed heartily at him, letting go of their fierce anger at Telemachus. The swineherd carried the bow through the hall, came up to wise Odysseus, and put it in his hands.
Then he called the nurse Eurycleia out and said: “Wise Eurycleia, Telemachus orders you to shut the closely fitted doors of the women’s quarters. If any woman hears groans or the crash of men fighting within our walls, she must not come out, but stay quietly at her work.”
So he spoke, and his words stayed fast in her mind. She shut the doors of the stately house. Philoetius slipped silently outside and closed the gates of the well-fenced courtyard.
Under the portico lay a ship’s cable of papyrus fibre, and with it he lashed the gates, then went back inside. He returned to the stool from which he had risen and sat watching Odysseus. Odysseus was already handling the bow, turning it over and examining it on every side, to see whether worms had eaten the horn while its master was away.
One suitor glanced at his neighbour and said: “The fellow must be a connoisseur of bows, or a dealer in them! Perhaps he has bows like this lying at home, or means to make one, the way this trouble-seasoned vagabond turns it over and over in his hands.”
Another of the arrogant young men said: “May he have just as much success in life as he will ever have in stringing that bow!” So the suitors spoke. But resourceful Odysseus, once he had lifted the great bow and examined it on every side, strung it as effortlessly as a man skilled in the lyre and song stretches a string around a fresh peg, fastening the well-twisted sheep-gut at either end. Just so, without strain, Odysseus strung the great bow.
Then he took the string in his right hand and tried it. It sang sweetly beneath his touch, clear as a swallow’s voice. Great anguish seized the suitors, and the colour drained from every face. Zeus thundered loudly, revealing his sign, and much-enduring, noble Odysseus rejoiced.
For the son of crooked-counselling Cronus had sent him an omen. He took up the swift arrow that lay bare beside him on the table. The others still lay within the hollow quiver, and the Achaeans would soon taste them.
He laid it on the bow’s bridge and drew back string and notch. Still sitting on his stool, he aimed straight ahead and loosed the arrow. It missed not one of the axes, passing through from the first opening onward, and the bronze-weighted shaft flew clean through and out beyond them. Then he said to Telemachus: “Telemachus, the stranger sitting in your hall has brought you no disgrace. I did not miss the mark, nor did I labour long to string the bow. My strength is still unbroken, whatever the suitors may say in their scorn and abuse.
“Now it is time to prepare supper for the Achaeans while it is still light, and afterward to entertain them in another fashion, with song and the lyre, the ornaments of a feast.” He spoke and gave a signal with his brows. Telemachus, the dear son of noble Odysseus, slung on his sharp sword and closed his hand around a spear. Then he stood beside his father’s chair, armed in gleaming bronze.
